


The Brahmses II

by mangoe



Series: The Brahmses [2]
Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Continuation of Colielox's The Brahmses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Minor gore warning for Brahms, Psychological Disorders, Rating subject to change, Relationship centered plot, Slow Burn, Therapy for Brahms, Therapy for Greta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangoe/pseuds/mangoe
Summary: A continuation of Colielox's story 'The Brahmses'. Takes place after the events of chapter 13.Updates biweekly.
Relationships: Greta Evans/Brahms Heelshire
Series: The Brahmses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811755
Comments: 17
Kudos: 68





	1. Cold Eggs

It was still early when Greta rose the next morning. Birds chirped from just beyond her windowsill and with a glance to her bedside clock, she realized it was only half past eight. No doubt Brahms was already up and about, their past routine nothing more than a memory, and Greta knew he’d be hungry soon. 

She dressed with swiftness, heading downstairs in a simple shirt and sweats. Once she had breakfast off the stove, she’d go fetch Brahms. Hopefully he’d make an appearance before and save her the trouble of scouring the house. Nothing solidified the feeling of going insane like shouting someone’s name to random walls and down empty halls.

Socked feet padded against the hard tile floor as Greta entered the kitchen, her ears strained for any noise within the home. Stepping over to the fridge, she took her time, pausing with a bend for the eggs to listen, but only the whir of the fridge filled her ears. Maybe the sound of her would bring the other about, shelving the scavenger hunt for the next morning.

Poached eggs, pan fried toast, and hot coffee were on the menu this morning. It was a quick cook, nothing too complex, and before she knew it, the meal was ready. Sliding an even amount onto both plates, Greta placed them at the table, still listening for the other. Even as she washed the pan and pot, there seemed to be no sign of Brahms. With a quick sip, Greta set her coffee down next to her plate and set off, mindful that if the other didn’t show his face soon, their breakfast would get cold. 

To keep herself from wandering the manor like a mad woman, shouting for a ghost, Greta devised a search plan. Firstly, she’d check Brahms’s newly discovered room, the one tucked away in the basement. She’d only gotten the barest feel of it when she’d been running for life a week or two ago, but with its messy floor and rumpled sheets, Greta didn’t doubt that was where Brahms spent most of his time. No doubt he’d be holed up there instead of listening to her cook like he should have been. 

If that search proved fruitless.. Well, mad woman wandering the halls it was.

“Brahms?”

Stopping at the lip of the foyer, Greta realized she needn’t go looking at all: Brahms was standing front and center in the landing, eyes trained to the front door. 

“Brahms, what are you-”

“Someone’s here.” The rough voice of the protector snatched the voice right from her throat. “I heard the car coming up the driveway.”

He was turned from Greta, body rigid as he stared ahead. His mask was off and she could see a part of his freshly shaven face, patchy in some areas from novice. Under different circumstances she might’ve thought it funny, but right now she wasn’t laughing. 

Greta went to ask the obvious question of how he knew someone was coming, still operating under the assumption he’d been in his hidey hole of a room, but the rumble of an engine and squealing of brakes stopped her in her tracks. 

It was silent as they both stared at the front door, neither body moving a muscle. The sound of two car doors opening, shutting, and the subsequent slap of feet on the ground echoed through the foyer like shattering glass. A rational part of Greta, a part that had somehow survived while in the Heelshire manor, knew that it was most likely nothing. Maybe Mr. Murray had shown back up with someone for legal related issues, maybe it was an acquaintance of the late Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire, hell, maybe it was Malcolm who’d brought a friend. So many possibilities and for Brahms to treat it as a threat felt borderline arbitrary.

The harsh pounding came first, electrifying the tension within the silent home. “Cole?” Another few knocks, “You there?”

Out of all the possibilities, all the different scenarios Greta could’ve thought up, the worst one took the stage. Front and center stood all her past issues, issues she thought gone with Brahms in the picture. It was now that she understood why the other had been on edge: Brahms knew which cars came and went, which meant he knew something foul was afoot before the men even got up the driveway.

More pounding soon followed as Greta prayed they’d give up and leave. Of course, Cole had told them where he was going. Told them how he was off to fetch his “wayward woman”, but they’d get the hint if no one answered the door, right? All they needed to do was stay quiet and hidden, then they would-

Greta’s heart sank with realization. Cole’s truck was still in the driveway. 

It hadn’t moved an inch since he arrived. Greta hadn’t gotten rid of it, couldn’t have gotten rid of it. Brahms had buried Cole with his keys still in his jeans.

“Go upstairs.” Brahms’s voice was heavy, laced with bubbling rage, “Get in your room and lock the door. I’ll handle this.”

Greta swallowed a retort. She could see how this would end, with Cole’s friends becoming just another tick on Brahms’s ever-increasing body count. She knew that if she let him have his way, she’d only be perpetuating the cycle of violence the other found himself in. What she also knew was that at least for the moment, it was useless to argue. She had close to no experience with this alter and had no idea how this part of Brahms would take to arguing, especially with imminent danger just a few paces away. With a heavy sigh, Greta resigned to scurry up the stairs wordlessly, hoping she could form a plan before Brahms had a chance to do anything rash. 

Once upon the second floor landing, Greta shot one last glance over the railing to Brahms before hurrying down the hall. She’d have to move fast if she wanted to beat the other to the punch. She knew what that part of Brahms did when he felt threatened, and she knew that he wouldn’t wait for her to draw up a proper game plan. 

There wasn’t much she could do up here. All the windows were painted shut and Brahms would see her plain as day if she tried to go back down the stairs. The main staircase she’d just come up was the only one in the house, a lone bridge between the four vast floors of the home, so if she wanted back downstairs, she’d have to use Brahms own tactics against him: the walls. 

Rushing to one the many lounge rooms scattered about the manor, Greta felt about the walls, searching for any plank that would give. She found reprieve by the fireplace, a small door leading into the hidden labyrinth, but her victory was short won. Even though she’d lived in the home for the better part of the past month, the layout now seemed convoluted and confusing in the bland, featureless alleys behind the walls. With the rooms, she had furniture and doors to fill in the blanks, but now, as she dashed down the paneled halls, all she had was her wits and what little muscle memory she’d picked up from the chase that introduced her to these passageways.

It was cramped, hot, and filthy. Each step sent up a plume of dust as she dashed about, searching for a way downstairs. It took a moment, with Greta having to open a few walls here and there to get an idea of where she was, but it wasn’t long before she found a ladder installed leading to the first floor. 

With swiftness she moved, feet and palms scrambling down the rungs. Praying Brahms hadn’t heard her in her haste, Greta slowly pushed open one of the fake walls, her steps cautious as she slipped through the door. She didn’t bother to shut it behind her, too busy rushing out of the room and toward the kitchen once more. 

Throughout all her hustling and bustling, Greta hadn’t heard Brahms do anything. Granted, she’d been too caught up in her own rushing to bother listening for anything foul, but now, as she padded through across the tile and towards the side door, it occurred to her that the house was silent. No pounding, no shouting, no carnage. Maybe had Greta not seen Brahms murder Cole and then try to do the same to Malcolm, she’d see this as a good thing, but the silence seemed sinister knowing what she knew. 

The pavement outside was still wet from last night's rain, soaking the bottoms of Greta’s socks as she slipped outside and down the porch stairs. Glancing to her left, she could see the other’s car was still there, meaning the men hadn’t driven off just yet, meaning that she might still have time to act. Unfortunately, it also meant Brahms might’ve already.

The Heelshire’s estate was as vast as it was beautiful, the back garden being no exception, and its expansive nature got the gears in Greta’s head turning as she ran into the lushness. There were countless structures erected here and there, roman posts and statues the most notable, and Greta didn’t doubt some of these ornaments would make a hell of a noise if they got knocked over.

Obviously she wasn’t taking down one of the pillars or plaster busts, it’d take a herculean effort to knock those things over, so one of the countless bird baths would have to suffice. There was one right next to the main walkway, filled with stagnant rain water and a few leaves. Looking at the intricate carvings around the rim, Greta felt a pang of regret as she pushed the bath over, but took solace in the fact that whatever artisan crafted such a piece would most likely support its demise if it meant lives were saved. 

The concrete bath shattered into hefty chunks as it smashed against the walkway, sending water and dust flying across the pavement. Greta ducked into the nearby brush and held her breath, listening. It was about two beats before she heard anything, the sound of some rustling before a voice shouted, “Who’s back there?”.

Half of Greta was filled with relief: She’d gotten to them before Brahms could and had just possibly saved their lives. The other half was filled with fear: They were most definitely coming back here to investigate, which meant she needed to hustle away from the scene and fast.

Climbing out of the neatly trimmed shrubs, Greta busted towards the back most door that lead into the garden. It had a small coat room attached before entering the main home which meant she could safely watch the men while she thought up the rest of her plan. The dirt smushed and stuck to the bottoms of her socks as she ran through the grass and over plants, not bothering with the winding walkway. 

With long strides, Greta skipped steps as she rushed up the back stairs, reaching the door in record time. She glanced back to the broken bird bath to check if the men had gotten there yet, but it seemed that in all her rushing she’d given herself time to spare. A sigh of relief slipped from her lips as she grabbed for the handle, ready to recoup inside and think up the rest of her plan. 

Clack. 

Greta looked at the knob in confusion. Once more she rattled the handle.

Clack, clack.

Frantic now, Greta placed both hands upon the doorknob and turned it this way and that, but instead of the door slipping open, all she was met with was repeated ‘clacks’.

Dread settled in her stomach as she realized what was wrong: the door was locked. 

She hadn’t locked it. The only doors she bothered to lock around here were the front and the bathroom, which meant either Malcolm or Brahms had gone about securing this one. Seeing how their current situation was shaping up, Greta didn’t doubt it was the latter of the two.

Moving to the edge of the porch, she tried the window. Hooking her fingers on the window’s slit, Greta strained to pull the thing open but with no luck. It was then, as she scrabbled at the edge of the sill, that she remembered the late Mr. Heelshire’s words, _“Seems our last handyman painted all the windows shut.”_ Somehow she doubted it was the handyman.

Voices sounded out not far from the corner and when Greta looked to the bird bath once more, she saw the stretched shadows of the men dancing across the ruin as they came ever closer.

Greta needed to get out of there. She toyed with the idea of hiding in some of the big, thick bushes that lined some of the garden, but doubted that even a brush that dense could hide her hot pink sweatpants. 

Stepping back to the door, Greta tried to force the lock. The manor was older than dirt, beautiful, but still old, which meant the lock would be no match for her panic laden grip.. hopefully.

The distressed rattling of the doorknob mixed with the ever-increasing voices made for a crescendo of dread, played out by a symphony of Greta’s perpetual bad luck. Her fingertips grew white from force as she jerked the scratched bronze handle about while tears of frustration stung at the edges of her eyes. After all she’d done, all she’d gone through, to escape her past life and live anew - to have it all knocked down by some flimsy door was near incomprehensible, but much too real.

Greta glanced over her shoulder for the umpteenth time. In horror she watched as the first of Cole’s friends emerged from behind the corner, stepping over broken pieces with a look of confusion plastered across his face. Like the first’s shadow, the second emerged sporting a similar look. 

It was over. She’d gone to all the trouble of making sure the two men didn’t die, and it was her downfall. The tears from before bubbled over and down her cheeks, hands stalled in their struggling. She hadn’t the resolve to even wipe her face, content in her horror to simply stand and watch as the men looked from the bird bath to the trailway and finally to her. 

Greta closed her eyes. She’d been here before, trapped by her own volition. The faces and the place had changed, but this cycle of her putting her heart on a plate and being surprised when it got stabbed was nothing new. 

She had expected shouts. Confusion, anger, any emotion the others could conjure up, Greta had expected to hear in their voices. What she hadn’t expected was a harsh _chunk_ , a blip of what could've been a gasp, followed by another, more wet _schunk._

Greta opened her stinging eyes, tears slowed but still dripping down her face. 

It was Brahms. It was always Brahms.

On the ground now laid the two men, bloodied and sprawled. In Brahms’s hand was a paddle of sorts, like the silly Seattle Seahawks paddle Cole had hanging in their kitchen, only instead of some caricature bird painted on it, the name _HEELSHIRE_ in bold, red letters read across its front. Maybe it had been a memento from a team one of the Heelshire men had been on? As neat as the thing was, Greta had no intention of asking right now.

She flicked her eyes up from the unmoving men to Brahms’s face, the cracked porcelain mask now sat snugly upon it. As if he could sense her gaze, Brahms slowly looked up, locking eyes across the yard. It proved to be a mistake for once he had Greta’s attention, the man began towards her.

Greta’s hands regained their strength as she began again at the knob, Brahms’s strides fueling her frantic scrabbling.

Maybe had this been the same Brahms a few days prior when he was nothing but a polite man willing to play tunes for her, she wouldn’t have panicked, but this was not the same Brahms walking towards her. No, the Brahms coming toward her was much different, now soaked in the gore of two innocent men whom he’d just bashed across the head. He hadn’t hurt her before, but that was exactly what she'd told herself before Cole changed, so Greta didn’t plan on sticking around.

Flexing her shoulders, Greta delivered one last stock armed yank to the knob and felt the rusted lock crunch as it gave way. 

She didn’t bother to see how close Brahms had gotten, but she heard his nearing footsteps. Greta pushed the door open and hurried in before slamming it behind her, pressing her weight against its paneled frame. A futile effort, she knew, she’d watched Brahms beat through this manor’s doors before, but she was tired of running. Tired of scurrying away to hide the moment things got sticky. Tired of letting others dictate her actions.

“Greta!” Brahms’s voice was loud and hoarse from behind the door, “Greta, let me in!”

“Go away Brahms!” Her own shout was thick with snot that’d come about as she had cried. 

A thick _thump_ hit the door and Greta could only assume it was the other’s fist. Once more he shouted, “Greta please!”

“ _Go_ _away, Brahms!”_ Greta’s tears increased tenfold. Her heart pounded inside her chest, beating its bloody fists against her ribs like they were made for nothing else. “ _Go away!”_

Greta held her breath, listening for the other. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sound of Brahms’s loafers pattering down and away from the porch stairs rang out, leaving only Greta and her endless stream of tears to fill the silence. 

Slowly, she curled into a ball, arms wrapped around her knees as she released all the tension within her out onto the fabric of her hot pink sweatpants.

It was there, as she sat sobbing and shoved against the door with her red, tear-stained face shoved into her knees, that she realized an overdue truth: Brahms may have made progress, but he still had a ways to go. He needed help, and Greta now knew she couldn’t be the only one to give it to him, no matter how badly she wanted to be.

She needed to call Mr. Murray. 


	2. Loyalty and Legalities

If Mr. Murray had been insane enough to help before, he’d be insane enough to help now.

How many people had Brahms killed? Greta couldn’t fathom the math. She knew of at least four, two of which were fresh on the roster, and considering the array of nannies that had passed through, she didn’t doubt Brahms was nearing doubt digits. 

Greta took a deep breath and lifted her head out of her knees. She wiped the tears and snot from her face, swallowing a few times to try and relieve her mouth which had dried with adrenaline. A heap of a woman she sat, body slowly unfurling from its position pressed against the door as she came to, mind clearing now that Brahms had gone. 

Mr. Murray’s card was on the chest of drawers across from her bed. If she was fast, she could make it there in a minute, dashing up the stairs and down the halls with abandon, but Brahms could make it there in less. She didn’t even know if he’d pick up the phone, much less what she’d tell him once he did.

Was she to come right out and say it? Tell Mr. Murray that  _ “Brahms has done it again!” _ like a mother who’d called to tell of her child ripping the heads off dolls? Was she to keep treating him and his actions like they were isolated from the real world, like they lived in a bubble where each death had no real meaning, no real consequence?

Greta swallowed again, saliva slowly returning to her mouth. She didn’t have the energy to nitpick the moral and legal implications of Brahms and his doings right now. Not here, not in this home. 

Standing, one hand pressed against the door to support her shaking legs, Greta thought to call up Malcolm. She needed to leave this wretched place, collect her thoughts and think up a plan, and to leave the manor to Brahms’s whims would be a mistake, but to subject the other once more to the spoils of his rage seemed cruel. 

Slowly her feet began to move, the dirt caked upon the bottoms flecking off as she tiptoed out of the mud room and toward the stairs. Brahms would have to fend for himself then, just for the day. 

The oak flooring groaned here and there under her weight, the stairway no different. Between steps she paused, her ear hovering next to the wall as she listened for the man of the hour, but, similar to breakfast, there was nothing to hear. Brahms had gone and busied himself with something else, something Greta didn’t care to know about. 

It unnerved her that Brahms’s childhood room sat directly attached to hers, a now dead limb of his past, forgotten and forgone, and as she entered her bedroom, it’s aura pervaded her. 

The connecting door was closed. Greta stepped over to it and set the lock before looking for the card.

Just as she’d remembered, it still sat on her chest of drawers, collecting dust alongside the antique lamp it rested under. Picking the thing up, Greta ran her thumb across the raised lettering, the formal font Mr. Murray had printed his name in a reminder of her college days. A fleeting memory, for her degree in business was now just a piece of paper in her suitcase, but a stark reminder of the world she’d forgotten about while inside the Heelshire manor.

Looking back, she found the phone sat on her bedside table. She hadn’t put it there, but Brahms moving her things about was nothing new. 

It took two rings before Greta’s call was picked up, the smooth tone of the receptionist filling her ears as she was briefed with whatever the law firm had scripted for client greetings. In hushed tones she told the employee who she needed and that no, it could not be scheduled for later and yes, time was of the essence. 

Greta rubbed at the wooden floor with her still socked feet, nerves alight as she was put on hold. The man she’d lived with, had grown to know, trusted even, had proven to her once again why he stalked the walls of his home and not the streets of England like any normal lad his age would. As she awaited transfer from the main line to Mr. Murray’s private line, Greta grew evermore anxious, the silence of her home suffocating. 

Nervously she glanced back to her closet, remembering the hidden door tucked behind her clothes. The urge to barricade the thing was strong and it might’ve won her over had the telltale  _ click-buzz _ of the line getting picked up not rang out from the phone. 

“Mr. Murray?”

“ _ Ms. Evans?”  _ His voice was gritty, the old phone half boiling whatever it received. 

“Y-Yes, it’s me - Listen,” She glanced from the closet to the main door then back to the closet, “we need to talk about Brahms.”

“ _ Has something happened?”  _ Even through the grit of the old landline, Greta could feel his concern, “ _ Are you alright?” _

“I’m fine but I need -” She added Brahms’s door onto the lot, eyes darting between the three things as if they’d disappear if she looked away too long, “We need to talk.” Lowering her voice, she tacked on, “In private.”

“ _ Ah, I see. Even in one’s own home, you are never alone.”  _

__ “Are you busy right now? I-I just need-”

_ “Allow me to give you my office address, yes? I believe it is here we can discuss such things.. privately, as you said.” _

__ The relief Greta felt swell inside her chest was near palpable, eyes fluttering shut as a soft sigh escaped her lips. An escape from Brahms - no, a reprieve. She was not running away, not abandoning the battle, but rather taking cover, licking her wounds. 

Mr. Murray began to speak once more and her hands scrambled through the bedside table, yanking out a pad of paper and pencil to write down the address. She had to clarify numbers here and there, the grit of the phone muddling some sounds, but when it was all said and done, Greta had shakily scribbled the address down.

With haste they exchanged goodbyes, a silent promise that Greta would make it to say hello once more. 

The click of the phone as it was sat once more upon the receiver rang through empty air, leaving only Greta’s breaths to take its place. Silently, she left the bedside and trodded softly towards the closet to change her dirtied clothes, ears strained for Brahms over her own noise. 

Cole had likened her to a cat once before; all nerves and nine lives with how she crept about, unable to see the irony in how it was he who made her that way.

Greta shook her head. Now was not the time. 

Hot pink pants hit the floor, followed by her shirt and socks. Standing bare in the closet, she, in a bout of paranoia, yanked the hidden door open, half expecting a cracked porcelain face to be staring back at her. Instead, Greta found nothing, and thus got dressed in pseudo-peace.

Jeans, flannel, jacket. The outfit was a staple of her wardrobe yet felt unbearably foreign on her skin, the soft fabric of the plaid too rough along her shoulders, the jeans denim dragging uncomfortably across her thighs. Nerves, she reminded herself, it was nerves that made the familiar clothes feel like a false skin, like a gravel lined person suit. Once she was gone and sat safely in Mr. Murray’s office, then she’d feel alright again. Once she was out of this house, it would be alright. 

Brahms had yet to rear his head, but still Greta erred on the side of caution, choosing to tiptoe to and down the stairs instead of making a mad dash to the car outside. Besides, she still needed to find a pair of shoes. 

It’s her flats that she found first, the pair sat right by the door, black suede catching the morning light. She slipped them on and grabbed her bag, stopping only to check inside for the key (which she found sat at the very bottom), before leaving out the front door. As if on instinct she locked it behind her, knowing that if Brahms needed in or out, he was clever enough to work around one measly deadbolt.

Speaking of, where had Brahms gone?

Greta had been so caught up in making sure he wasn’t watching her that she hadn’t even thought what the man might be doing instead. A sinister realization, truly, for if he hadn’t been keeping tabs on her inside the walls, then he must’ve been -

Like a bullet, Greta ran towards the back gate.

How could she not have realized? What else could Brahms have been doing?

Concrete scuffed the bottoms of her flats as she rounded the corner, eyes landing on where the two men had been.

Both of them were gone. All that remained was large pools of blood already half soaked into the pavement, no doubt staining it. It seemed Brahms had even cleaned up the bird bath, its shattered remains awol as well. Had it not been for the spilt rainwater mixed with gore that now saturated the ground, there would be no trace of the men left. No proof they’d ever been here, save for their blood spatters and rental car. No proof they’d ever existed anywhere but where they last left a piece of themselves.

Once more Greta reminded herself that she hadn’t the energy to weigh the legal and moral implications of Brahms’s handiwork. All she could do for now was work on picking up the pieces.

The rental car hadn’t been locked. Greta doubted the men had left it so.

It was easy enough to jump start, a misspent youth having honed Greta’s skills in such things. Sure, there were new wires and the panels didn’t pop off as easy, but in less than two minutes she had the engine purring to life and the wheels rolling back down the driveway.

***

The leather of the waiting room couch looked expensive. Sat upon it, the rich material creaked under her weight, drawing the eye of the client across from her. Under their gaze, Greta zipped her jacket up a little farther. 

It was nearly ten now, Greta knew. For the five minutes she’d been waiting in the lobby, she’d glanced at the clock enough to have memorized it’s face thrice. 

The receptionist had said Mr. Murray was finishing up a phone call, that he’d be with her in just a moment, and while she knew five minutes wasn’t all that much of a wait, each second that passed chipped the block that was her patience. Each second she wasn’t at home doing damage control was another second Brahms could be adding to the mess. 

Sitting there, fidgeting on the expensive leather, Greta realized that this was the first time she’d been anywhere but the house since she took Malcolm to the hospital. 

Besides the obvious, maybe it was that fact that had her in such a rut. For the past few weeks or so, all Greta had done was worry herself with Brahms. No matter where she was, the man was just a knock or two away. She’d gotten so accustomed to just having him right around the corner that now, a good twenty miles from the lad, all she could think about was what he was doing. 

Brahms wasn’t going anywhere. A homebody, both by choice and not, a man who couldn’t track her down and find her himself if he tried. Greta didn’t have to worry about him the same way she worried about Cole, but the fear she felt tied the two together on some level within her mind. 

“Ms. Evans!”

Both heads in the lobby snapped to attention.

“Please,” Mr. Murray waved his hand toward the doorway he stood in, “come in!”

Greta shot up from her chair. Wasting no time, she hurried toward and through the door, glad to have the other client’s gaze off of her as well as her own thoughts silenced. 

Shelves upon shelves lined the walls, all stocked to the brim with books and knick-knacks. Titles in cursive spanned across each wall of the room, accented by what Greta could only assume were mementos of a lawyer. The hardwood below was cushioned by an expensive looking rug, its scarlet red wool untouched by time, serving as a final seal of prestige for the room. She hadn’t given a thought to what the man’s office might’ve looked like before she entered, but now that she stood within it, gazing upon its lushness, Greta thought it suited him perfectly. 

With a solid  _ click, _ Mr. Murray shut the door behind them and turned the lock before referencing to his desk. 

“If you’d so kindly take a seat,” His smile looked genuine, but Greta could see the worry tucked behind his eyes that came with knowing of Brahms.

“I’m sorry I came on such late notice, I-”

“No need for apologies, Ms. Evans!” His stride was quick, a mix of business and play as he made his way alongside Greta to the desk, pulling out the plush chair tucked behind it to sit himself down, “I gave you my card for this very reason, did I not?”

Following his lead, Greta sat herself across from him into one of the two visitors seats. The vinyl was much more worn than the couch outside, but comparatively comfier. 

“Now, you mentioned you needed to see me immediately,” Gone was his smile as he pulled his seat up and leaned onto his desk. It was here, with Mr. Murray’s hands clasped and face now somber, that Greta remembered that despite his campy demeanor, this was the man who had helped cover up the murder of a young girl and was undoubtedly ready to do it again, “I can only imagine that Brahms has gotten himself into some more trouble.”

“Yeah,” To say ‘some trouble’ would’ve been an understatement, “he sure has.”

Mr. Murray unfurled his hands to reference about as he spoke, “Well, you seem to be handling it quite well. Mrs. Heelshire sobbed in my office for days the first time Brahms had some.. Issues.”

Greta laughed softly but her throat was raw and it came out crooked. “I guess I’m still waiting for it to hit me.”

What was ‘it’, exactly? Was ‘it’ Cole’s death? Brahms’s alters? The flour sack version of her wearing her coral dress? Greta’s life in the manor had been nothing but a series of ‘it’s all piling up, rattling the hinges of her psyche. The Heelshires had cut the brakes and sent her downhill the second she walked through their doors and in all her panic she hadn’t given herself a moment to think, to process. 

Well, she had tried at least, when she snuck off to drink herself to sleep that night and Brahms -

“Ms. Evans?”

Snapping her eyes up to the other, Greta realized they had been sitting in silence. “Sorry, did you say something?”

The edges of his eyes crinkled when he responded and his knowing gaze unnerved her in the slightest. “It’s alright, handling Brahms can do that to a person.” 

Mr. Murray’s hands came back together, fingers relacing as he picked the conversation back up, “I asked what the extent of the damages was.”

“Oh, well,” Turning a shoulder, Greta glanced to the door.

“Do not worry, Ms. Evans. The lock is solid steel and the door solid oak, my office is safe.”

Nodding, she fought to return her gaze to the other, “Cole’s friends came looking for him.” Only after the words left her mouth could she look back to Mr. Murray, but it was with this that she realized he hadn’t a clue of the hell that came with the name ‘Cole’. “H-He, uh, he was my ex.”

Mr. Murray nodded, a silent urge for more, and Greta knew she should just come out and say it. Say she watched Brahms bash their skulls in, watched as he hung them for Cole’s crimes as if his death was not punishment enough already. 

It took a moment, the words hanging in the air as Greta struggled to find the words, but soon enough something clicked and Mr. Murray let out a deep sigh. “Ah,” His fingers flexed open as if to punctuate his words, “I see.”

Once more his hands moved, slipping from their own grasps. A fat ringed finger tapped his desk twice before it slid out of view, busying itself with one of the many drawers hidden below and behind the desk’s counter. 

Greta needn’t worry for long with Mr. Murray quickly opening a drawer before reaching back up to slap a manila folder onto the desktop. It was blank, but as swiftly as he had gotten it out, Mr. Murray opened it up, letting Greta peer at the pages within. She could see sections had been blocked off, certain information grouped about the page, yet despite the neat 11 point font, she couldn’t make out much from the upside down lettering.

“Do you know what this is, Ms. Evans?”

She shook her head. Mr. Murray turned the folder to face her. 

“These are the incident reports of both the Heelshire manor fire and the young Ms. Cribbs death.”

Greta’s mouth turned into a small ‘oh’ as she peered at the now upright pages. 

Taking her silence as a cue, Mr. Murray continued, “If you flip through, you’ll see most everything looks in order; nothing linking the two incidents.”

Taking the first page, Greta set it next to the one underneath it, eyes roaming about the texts. “ _ Most  _ of everything looks in order?”

“Quick girl!” His smile was cherubic as he reached his finger out, pointing at the leftmost page, “Yes,  _ most. _ ”

His finger had landed upon the ‘ _ Time of Death”  _ section of Emily Cribbs autopsy report. As if instructed by the other’s gnarled fingernail that now laid upon the page, Greta parroted the information out loud, “Approximate time of death: 11 a.m. to 1 p.m.”

Wordlessly, he slid the thing over to the other page, tapping the recorded response time to the Heelshire manor.

“Arrival of paramedics..” Greta furrowed her brow, “10 a.m?”

It made no sense. She’d been certain Brahms had lit the fire  _ after  _ killing the little girl. “How is that possible?” Looking up from the pages, Greta turned her confused gaze onto Mr. Murray, “I thought the manor caught fire after they found the body?”

“Precisely, Ms. Evans.” He flashed her a wide smile and a beat of silence passed before realization slapped her in the face.

“You forged the times.” Mr. Murray’s smile only grew wider the longer she looked at him and Greta thought he seemed too pleased with himself. Despite the moral weight that covering up a little girl’s death held, she found herself impressed.

“It was quite a feat, I had to call in many favors at the fire brigade, but in the end, it dismissed Brahms completely from Ms. Cribbs equation.” 

He was insane. That was the only explanation. Only an insane man would go to such lengths to save the hides of some rich family. Fortunately for her, it’d take an insane man to cover up the deaths of Cole and his buddies. 

As swiftly as he’d gotten them out, Mr. Murray tucked the documents back into the folder and hid them in his desk once more, hands returning to their positions on top of one another. “As you can see Ms. Evans, I’m well-versed in cleaning up messes, especially those made by Brahms.” Looking up from his hands, he schooled his expression solemn once again, “But I have a feeling you don’t wish to keep up the Heelshire tradition of covering his tracks.”

A soft sigh slipped past her lips, hands wringing themselves in her lap as she prepared to face a truth she’d done everything to avoid. “I want to discuss treatment options.”

“Oh?” Two thick, grayed brows shot up Mr. Murray’s forehead, “I thought you and Brahms had agreed no hospitalization? Have you changed your mind?”

“N-No, no nothing that drastic.” Greta wiped her palms on her thighs, smearing non-existent sweat onto the fabric, “I just wanted to see if there was anything else we could do without putting him in a home.”

“Are you implying therapy?”

“I’m implying anything that keeps him from murdering random people.”

Mr. Murray chuckled at the statement, “Well, I suppose the best way to keep paint off the walls is to take the brush from the child.”

Greta let the words stand, quickly growing tired of any metaphors the man had. Filling her silence, the wood of his chair groaned softly as Mr. Murray leaned back, kicking one leg up onto the other, “Therapy is a viable option, though it may be some time until I can find someone who fits our.. Circumstances.”

“Of course, of course.” Slinging her hands up from her lap, Greta waved them in understanding, “I’d need time to warm him up to the idea anyways.”

“Wonderful!” Once more a smile creaked across the old man’s face, jowls creasing in joy, “Time seems to be in our favor then. How rare that is in my line of work, Ms. Evans, how rare!” His hands slapped his thighs as he continued, “But until then, I would suggest you take precautions to keep yourself safe. Brahms seems partial to you, but with how nicely you’ve sat yourself in our lives, I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

A few brown strands slipped out from behind her ear as she nodded in agreement, “Most definitely, I’ll make sure to keep all of my limbs until we speak again.”

A hearty chuckle ripped out of the lawyer and Greta found herself less scared of the man’s smile, ”I see why the lad likes you!” Tossing his leg back down, Mr. Murray slid back to the front of his seat and clasped his hands atop the desk, “I’ll call you when I’ve found someone. I have the manor’s number, so you just make sure not to ignore any calls until then!”

Nodding once more, Greta let relief wash over her. She’d gotten used to her life coming down in flames at every bend, so to have someone with a bucket in hand was refreshing. 

***

The front door was unlocked when she arrived back home. Almost certain she’d locked it, Greta found the anxiety Mr. Murray had dispelled returning twofold. 

“Brahms?”

The foyer was dark, but she didn’t need a light to slip off her shoes and hang her bag back up.

“Greta?”

It was the voice of young Brahms. 

“Brahms? Buddy, where are you?” Thank god it hadn’t been the protector. She knew how to handle young Brahms, how to hold him, what to tell him. Even though the protector was still a part of Brahms, each time he’d arisen, Greta had found herself scrambling to counter him. 

“I’m right here, Greta.” Following his voice, Greta found him sat upon the couch in the room adjacent to the foyer. In his hands was a worn teddy, the ribbon around its neck crimped within Brahms’s grip.

“Hey Brahms.” She fought to keep her voice soft, steps slow and purposeful as she walked over and sat herself beside him. He’d taken off his mask before she arrived, letting Greta see his puffy eyes and red, splotchy cheeks. 

“I thought you’d left us.” His voice cracked as if he was on the verge of tears once more and Greta felt her heart clench. 

“No buddy, I’d never leave you.” Slowly,  _ carefully, _ she slipped an arm around his shoulders, tucking him into her side. “I had to step out for a little while, that’s all.”

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you Greta? That’s what Mummy did when she was scared of me, leave.” 

Her gut instinct was to tell him ‘no’, to tell him she was nothing like his mother, but she’d be lying right to his face and he’d know it. “Brahms,” The countless parenting books she’d read back in her maternity days should’ve prepared her for these conversations, but with Brahms she never truly felt ready, “you did some scary things. I know you might not remember them, but other parts of you did do them.” She paused, tucking some curls behind the man’s ear with her free hand, “I'm not scared of you buddy, I’m scared of what you do when you’re scared.”

Brahms had no response to that. In fact, he remained quiet for the next minute, letting Greta rub his shoulder and hold him in silence. 

“What did I do, Greta?”

She’d expected him to ask a thousand different things, but never that.

“Something very bad, Brahms.” She placed her other hand upon his thigh, “Something we’re going to have to talk about when you feel better, okay?”

His head of curls shook as he nodded, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, Greta.”

Instead of trying to quell the other with words, Greta resigned to reach up and tuck his face into her shoulder, shushing him softly. They’d talk about this later, Greta would tell him about therapy later. With Brahms snuggled up in her arms, shameless as he sought comfort, Greta decided everything could come later. Right now, she had a Brahms to comfort. 


	3. Prodigal Son

The book had fit perfectly into the back of the kitchen drawer, it’s short, thick binding slotted neatly where the silverware didn’t reach. There were countless hiding spots about the house, but it seemed this one Brahms had failed to yet find. 

It had arrived a day prior with Malcolm and the groceries. Greta had done her best to be subtle, having had him slip the book in at the bottom of the produce bag, and going off the fact it hadn’t been touched since she hid it in the drawer, Greta figured she’d kept it well enough under radar. 

The wheels that held the kitchen drawer in place squealed as Greta pulled on it’s handle, her hands swift as she rummaged about for what she’d hidden inside. 

Bringing the thing out into the open, Greta let whatever light passed through the kitchen windows illuminate the cover. Blocked letters took up the top half while an inspirational photo of a mother and child filled in the space left at the bottom. _ ‘Kids are Stressful:’  _ it read out, followed by a smaller, slanted slogan underneath,  _ ‘Tips and Tricks for Stress Management with Children’.  _

Greta knew Brahms wasn’t a child. Maybe a part of his mind still was, but Brahms himself was not the eight year old boy that laid within him. Greta knew she could not treat him as such, to neglect the whole for a subset that was easier to manage. She would not make him suffer through such treatment again. 

Mr. Murray had said it himself, she was different from the Heelshires, different from his mother. 

Brahms may not have been a child and she may not have been his mother, but the book was all Malcolm could find and after Brahms’s episode, Greta was not about to wing this any longer. 

Her jean clad hip bumped the drawer closed before resting on the edge of the counter top, fingers mindlessly flicking through the thick array of pages. She’d read the first few chapters the day before after Malcolm had left, most, if not all, of them centered around the upkeep of self and rule setting. It was all useful information no doubt, but she’d already taken the liberty of drilling the basics into her head back in her maternity days, so it was easy for her to gloss over the eleven point font that filled pages one to twenty. 

Trailing over the middle of the book, Greta’s thumb caught a random page and opened to a random chapter. The title was as generic as the first few, some three word saying followed by a quick briefing line underneath, but unlike the other chapters, this one seemed to offer something Greta hadn’t heard before. 

“ _ Fight or Flight:” _ Just like the cover, the bolded words laid at the top of the page, “ _ Aggression with Problem Solving.” _

__ Aggression. Brahms definitely had an issue with that, one she was neither emotionally nor physically equipped to handle.

She sifted through the next few pages, eyes only leaving the book to check the kitchen and make sure she was still alone.

“ _ Children aren’t equipped with the skills to handle stress,”  _ The font was grating, a bastardized Arial that spoke of the manufacturing quality, “ _ which is why it is vital for a guardian to give them proper coping mechanisms.”  _ Malcolm had no doubt picked it up from some corner store bookrack. 

Despite the questionable quality, Greta paid her full attention to the text. It tied itself to the chapter title, explaining how a child’s fight or flight might be what is triggering meltdowns. The meltdowns the book spoke of didn’t even humor the level of meltdown Brahms could reach, but the argument was solid: When stressed, the mind will treat the stress as a threat, which is where the aggression comes in. The book details children ripping heads of toys and hitting the dog, and to combat such aggression by making oneself a safe outlet for the child’s fear. 

Making oneself a safe space was easy when the extent of damage was toddler fists, but Brahms had murdered two innocent men and many more. How in the hell was she supposed to be an outlet for that?

Greta turned her thoughts back to the book. She skipped over the next few sections, both centered on being ‘the rock’ for one's child, and began on the child centered passages. She could not be Brahms's rock, at least not now, but she could give him something to help him deal with his fears on his own. 

***

Traipsing the halls in search of Brahms was nothing new. Here and there she called out for him, knocking on hidden doors and hollow walls in some arcane summoning ritual for the man. As she searched, Greta didn’t even humor the rooms he once frequented, his childhood bedroom long since forgotten and the study untouched. 

With such random searching, it was only a matter of time before her feet led her to her own bedroom. 

Stopped at the lip of the door, Greta thought to check the attic first, or maybe peek out to the garden in case Brahms had hidden himself there. Her bedroom felt like a last resort, to place herself down upon her bed and wait for him acting as a silent admittance of defeat. Rationally, Greta knew she shouldn’t care, should see that these searches were not a game and changing tactics was not a loss, but the manor and the man who roamed it were quite adept at convincing her otherwise. 

Tucked but rumpled, Greta’s covers were as she had left them when she woke. Walking over to the plush bed, she took a seat and turned a sharp eye to all the details of the room, but even after she’d sat and stared for a full minute, she could find nothing amiss.

“Brahms?”

The echo was lonely, her voice filling the four corners of her room with ease. 

“We need to talk. I’m tired of running around.” 

And now she was to wait, patience a virtue. 

“Brahms!” 

A virtue she no longer possessed.

“Greta?”

Greta snapped her head to the left with a start, eyes landing on the man idling in her closet doorway. As it turned out, she needn’t wait at all.

“Oh, there you are.”

The hidden passageway, she’d forgotten there was one in her closet. 

Patting the spot next to her, Greta schooled her expression, “Come sit Brahms, we need to talk.”

He didn’t have his mask on, leaving Greta privy to the look of worry and confusion that flashed across his face.

“You’re not in trouble, I promise.”

His feet shuffled as he made his way over, features softening as he sunk down slowly onto the comforter. 

“Something bad happened, didn’t it?” It was the host, his voice quiet and smooth. 

Greta’s hand found his shoulder, “What makes you say that?”   
  
“Daddy only ever sat me down when I did something bad.”

Her hand stopped atop the shoulder closest to her, thumb idly rubbing circles into the fabric that covered it. “I’m not your father, Brahms, am I?”

“No.” A weak smile broke out across his face, cheeks crinkling, “You’re my Greta.”

“That’s right,” She mirrored his grin, “I’m your Greta.”

She let the moment stand, soaking in the image of the part of Brahms she hadn’t seen in days. This piece of him, both obtrusively normal and not, made it easy to forget why she was here with him now, why she was here in the first place.

He was right. He had done something bad, something horrendous that should’ve sent her out the door without a glance back. But he had done it when he was both himself and not. There were no corner store books about what Brahms struggled with, no page of notes for her to reference when things went wrong, so when it came to it, Greta had no clue how much control Brahms had and how much he remembered. 

The talk she’d planned earlier that morning no longer seemed like a good idea, the thought of discussing stress methods made for children sounded much too patronizing for this part of Brahms. She would wait until ‘little’ Brahms reared his head for the talk.

“Brahms,” In the meantime, she’d try her hand at a few burning questions she had, “do you remember when you told me about the ‘protector’ part of yourself?”

He nodded, chocolate curls bouncing atop his head. 

“Well,” Words, like most things in the Heelshire house, failed her just when she needed them most, “do you know why he acts the way he does?” 

For a moment, Greta feared she’d gobbed her question so hard that the other couldn’t answer. She knew why, they both knew why, for it was Brahms who had told her about the older boys at school, but the lengths the alter went too seemed to come from somewhere much deeper than a few schoolyard beatings. 

Brahms slid his eyes from hers to the hardwood below, face once more taking on the thin veil of worry she’d seen when he entered the room. Greta stopped her thumb and placed her hand back into her own lap, waiting. 

The urge to pry was there, waiting at the back of her mind like an impatient child, and perhaps it was exactly that which it represented. The restless, childish need to know right away, home of impolite questions galore. Greta knew it would get her nowhere with Brahms, crowding him like that part of her suggested was a surefire way to scare him off, but the feeling remained, however irrational. 

The feeling only got stronger as ten seconds turned into twenty, twenty into thirty, and thirty into forty, the pattern repeating until Greta realized they’d been sitting in silence for a full two minutes, Brahms’s eyes still glued to the floor.

“I understand it might be hard to talk about, but we can’t ignore it forever. I’m gonna go do the dishes, and you come find me when you’re ready, alright?”

Her feet shifted as she went to stand, body making it halfway through the motion before a hand grabbed at her sleeve. 

Greta looked back, stuck in a half rise as Brahms, who, even now, refused to look up from the floor, gripped her sweater steely. 

“He watched the older boys a lot, I know that.”

Slowly, she sat back down, Brahms hand refusing to let go of her shirt. Instead of responding, instead of asking for him to go on, Greta simply reached over with her idle hand and placed it over his fist. 

“Once he learned to fight them off, he’d learned how they acted, listened to what they talked about.” Brahms finally moved his eyes from the floor, now watching Greta’s lap, “He modeled them.”

“Brahms, did you hurt other boys at school like they did?”

“No!” He was sudden with it, voice raising and eyes snapping hers as if he couldn’t handle letting the thought stand for even a second, “Greta I wouldn’t-”

Her hand tightened its hold upon his, “I was just making sure, Brahms. It’s alright.”

The fear faded from his face and Brahms put his eyes down once more, fist unraveling from it’s grip on Greta’s sweater. A beat of silence passed before she slotted their hands together, fingers and palm fit snugly against one another. 

“I don’t remember a whole lot when he’s in control.. He feels so strongly that it muddles up the memories.”

Greta nodded, tucking his words away safely in her mind. She’d suspected it before, having seen how all three of the most present parts of Brahms acted individually, but now she was sure who was in control when Emily Cribbs was murdered. Her thumb picked up once more, rubbing small circles into the back of Brahms’s hand. Like many things concerning the man, she would have to save the thought for later.

Another minute of quiet passed but unlike before, Greta knew there was nothing else to be said. Maybe she’d gotten better at picking up on his cues, or maybe it was pure intuition, but for whatever reason, Greta knew he had finished laying his heart out. At least for now. 

“I’m sorry I don’t know more Greta.”

The arm Brahms had gripped in his panic made its way around his shoulders, fingers wrapping around the edge of his broadness. He makes no move to leave her hold, sinking into her open form, hands still clasped upon the covers below. 

“It’s okay Brahms, you don’t have to. I’m here for you either way.”

***

A thin layer of oil popped and simmered in the shallow pan, three sausages sizzling idly with Greta stationed at the counter a foot away. In her hand she held an apple, half its surface bare of its peel as she went at it with a small kitchen knife. Occasionally she’d throw a glance to the pan, rolling the sausages as she saw fit, but mostly she focused on her smooth, clean slices as she freed the fruit from its skin.

Brahms was sat at the table in his usual spot, colored pencil clutched tightly in his fist as he slowly filled in the coloring page in front of him. Here and there he’d switch hues, coloring the sky a nice robin’s egg and the grass a deep fern, pencils clacking as he laid them on the table.

Greta had found the activity book in the attic. The pages were blank, the book sat at the bottom of some tucked away box filled with other similarly unused toys, and looking through the thing, she realized that she’d most likely stumbled upon Brahms’s ninth birthday gifts. Toys bought for a boy who’d died at age eight, for a boy who’d never get to use them, toys stuffed and hidden away in the attic for a ghost. Toys that now, decades later, could finally be put to use.

As the grandfather clock in the foyer donned twelve, Greta’s knife stopped, the peel now nothing more than a long spring of matter that laid in the trash. Turning around, she placed the naked fruit upon the counter and traded out her knife before slicing the apple into six clean pieces. 

Idly she reached and flicked off the stove top, moving the pan onto a cool burner before fetching a small plate from the cabinets above. Upon it she laid the slices and dolled the sausages onto the space left, careful to keep the grease from tarnishing the sweet fruit. 

She hadn’t gotten a chance to say what she wanted to earlier that morning. Host Brahms’s presence had thrown her off, she’d prepped her words for a different part of him. By no means was she upset by the alter’s appearance, his company more than welcomed after nearly a week of chaos caused by his other parts, but the host only had so many answers and the book she’d gotten wasn’t made for talks with him. 

Now, his lunch in hand, Greta knew she could not wait for another chance. 

Little Brahms had appeared not long after the two parted ways in her bedroom. He’d popped in when he heard Greta lugging the abandoned box down from the attic, and from there it had been easy enough for her to lure him in with the new toys she’d found and the promise of a meal. 

Just as she had done that morning, Greta opened the silverware drawer and peeked at the book hidden in the back. But instead of pulling it out to thumb through like earlier, she instead resigned to simply glance and reassure herself of what she was doing this for, who she was doing this for. 

Greta looked away from the cover, snatching up a fork before closing the drawer. 

“Brahms?”

The man looked up from his picture, colored pencil still clenched in hand.

“It’s time to eat, you may play with your new things once you’ve cleared your plate.”

Maybe it was the smell of the fresh sausage or maybe it was the fact Brahms hadn’t eaten breakfast (as far as Greta knew at least), but with haste he put up his things, laying the activity book in the center of the table with his box of pencils next to it.

The edge of the plate clinked once and then twice as she set it in front of him, handing him his fork and a napkin she’d snagged from the counter. 

With Brahms sated, Greta turned and made her way to the fridge. She hadn’t much of an appetite, nerves frying whatever messages her stomach could send her, but she refused to wait until dinner for her first meal of the day. 

From the fridge she grabbed a bag of grapes, something Malcolm had picked up a few days prior now that they were in season. Closing the door, Greta brought the bag over to the table and sat with it in front of her, her seat adjacent to the young man who now ate silently. 

“Brahms?” She asked once again.

Similar to before, Brahms gave her his attention, silent. This time, it was because his mouth was full of fruit.

“We need to have a talk about how you handle stress.”

Promptly he ceased his munching, giving the half chewed slice in his mouth a hard swallow before speaking, “Should I stop eating?”

Her bangs bounced as she softly shook her head, “No, you may finish while we speak.”

Brahms needn’t be told twice, his fingers swift as they picked up another slice.

Reaching into the bag of grapes, Greta grabbed one of the small, plump fruits in a similar fashion, popping it into her mouth before beginning what would undoubtedly be the hardest talk she’d had with the man yet.

“Do you remember our talk this morning?”

He nodded, chewed some more, and then spoke, “A little, remembering things between us is hard sometimes.”

“So I’ve heard.” Her hand reached for another grape, rolling it’s fat, ripe body between the pads of her fingers, ” You don’t need to remember all the details, but we talked about where the ‘protector’ part of you comes from.”

“Oh.” He sounded.. Was scared the right word? No, knowledgeable worry seemed to fit better, but scared was a close second, “I know he can be frightful Greta, but I promise he’d never hurt you.”

“I know buddy, I’m not worried about him hurting me,” Her belief of this teetered, her own words something Greta hadn’t fully convinced herself were true yet, “but he did hurt other people.”

Pausing, Greta ran through the checklist she’d thought up for their talk. Step one: Locate the root of stress. That part was easy enough, Brahms was stressed by many things and his alter wasted no time letting them be known. 

The next step in her checklist wasn’t as easy. While she’d disregarded the ‘rock’ talk for the time being, she took the time to read the next section about control, or, more specifically, reminding children that they were in control. It was obvious the book hadn’t taken children with multiple personalities into account. 

She’d have to wing it. Having been raised in Montana, ‘winging it’ was nothing short of a daily occurrence. From car troubles to legal disputes, ‘winging it’ was more often than not a go to solution. Even with her extensive training in the art, the idea of winging something so important with someone so delicate shook her to the core. 

“Whenever you feel him coming about, the protector, you need to work on coming to me first.” The book had recommended talking points, quite a few thankfully vague and ripe for modification, “I understand he’s there to keep you safe, but so am I. I may not be as strong, but I promise I will be here to help you.”

Unfolding her free hand, Greta slid it across the table in a silent offer to the man. She didn’t continue until Brahms had slipped his own hand into hers.

“You know how angry the protector part of you can get, right?”

That head of curls nodded, the movement twinged with guilt. 

“It’s good to express anger, but sometimes it can make the situation worse, especially if it gets the upper hand on you.” Taking her hand out of the grape bag, Greta reached and laid it atop their already clasped palms, sandwiching the limbs, ”What I ask is when that part of you feels the anger, that urge to protect, that instead of acting, you find me and we can work out a solution together, okay?”

She could not be his rock, his outlet. She could not withstand the strength of his blows nor could she give herself to him as an escape. What she could do was simply be his Greta, sat at the sidelines, ready to listen.

“But,” Brahms’s eyebrows tilted, now worried, “But what if that part of me doesn’t remember to? He’s not the best at listening to me..”

Even the coldest heart, Greta felt, could not resist the endearing speak of little Brahams, “Then we’ll just have to keep passing the message along until he does.”

A beat of silence passed, the man’s eyebrows still contorted for half a minute of contemplation before relaxing and returning his gaze to Greta.

“Thank you Miss Greta, for being here.”

“I’ll always be here for you buddy.” Greta slipped both her hands from his grasp, instead folding them in front of her, “Now, finish your lunch and then we can go play upstairs.”

As if a flip had been switched, Brahms cleared his expression and dug into his lunch, the promise of playtime riveting enough to spur him on. It was soothing, Greta thought, to watch the man chomp away at his fruit and meat in such a childlike fashion. For them to both be so infinitely content in the moment, Greta felt she could have wished for nothing more. 


	4. Deals of Duality

When the call finally came, Greta was fast asleep in her bed, tucked and rolled up in her woolen sheets. 

At eight that night she had laid down, Brahms early to bed as well, and when she awoke to the harsh ringing from the landline, the clock beside it read out eleven o’ six P.M. 

Some long forgotten panic triggered within her when she first heard it, the fear of her alarm clock a remnant of her college days, but the old, dull  _ bring  _ was so different from the tones of her cell that it brought her to reality. Blindly she reached, curtains drawn, her eyes working double time to adjust to the darkness. Despite the haze that clouded her mind, Greta had enough sense to pick the phone up when she found it, holding the cold, black metal to her ear to croak out a ‘hello’.

“ _ Am I speaking to Ms. Evans?” _

__ The crackle of the line was the same as it had been last time she’d used it, words gritting through the speaker as if it took physical effort to push them through.

“Yes,” Her throat was raw with disuse, “who is this?”

“ _ Greetings, Ms. Evans! I’m terribly sorry for such a late night interruption, but Mr. Murray said it was of utmost importance that he be connected to your line at once.” _

__ It was the same lad who’d answered the phone a few days prior. Even through the grime of the phone she recognized it, and mentioning her... questionable acquaintance only reaffirmed this. 

Sitting up, Greta cocked her hip underneath her and planted a hand on the mattress, elbow locking to keep her upright, “Did something happen?” 

_ “I’m afraid I am not privy to such matters, Ms. Evans, for Mr. Murray wishes to speak to you himself.”  _ Of course he couldn’t tell her anything, not on a public line like that of a receptionist,  _ “May I transfer you to his line?” _

__ “Y-Yes, yes of course,” Greta cleared her throat once, “Thank you.”

The same  _ click-buzz _ that had played when she first called the man rang out and almost immediately after, Mr. Murray was speaking.

_ “Ms. Evans! Terribly sorry to call at such an hour, I hope I haven’t woken you.” _

He had absolutely, undoubtedly awoken her, “No, you’re alright, I was just finishing up some late night reading.” 

“ _ A night owl, good to know! I’ll have to keep that in mind next time we chat.”  _ The regret of lying was near instantaneous, cosmic karma sparing not a moment, “ _ But I have not called so late just to hear about your sleeping habits, dear. I come bearing good news!” _

__ “Good news?” The sleep had left her voice, but still her eyes drooped as she continued, “I’ve never had news so good that it couldn’t wait for the morning.”

“ _ Then you’ve never gotten news from me, dear.”  _ A hearty chuckle rasped through the landline and Greta was taken back to when she sat across from the man in his office, that same laugh ringing out after one of her half baked quips. It appeared he was as fond of his own cleverness as he was of hers, “ _ I’ve rang to tell you that I may have just solved the ...predicament from our last meeting.” _

__ Had she been anyone else, Mr. Murray’s mention of a ‘predicament’ would have been clear, most folks only have one major ‘predicament’ at a time, but unfortunately, she was Greta Evans, caretaker of Brahms Heelshire. The idea of having only one predicament to address seemed laughable. 

“Care to elaborate?”

“ _ What I mean to say is that I’ve convinced an associate of mine to conduct the therapy we spoke of.” _

__ Oh, obviously that predicament. 

“You have?” She didn’t bother hiding the disbelief in her voice, the man had lied to countless before, meaning that this colleague he’s ‘convinced’ may or may not know about the true nature of what they’ve agreed to, “And does this colleague know the extent of the man they wish to treat?”

“ _ Why, Ms. Evans, you sound as if you believe me to be crooked!”  _ Mr. Murray, the man who’d covered a little girl's death, had the gall to sound offended, “ _ I’ve told them what they need to know. It is up to Brahms and you to decide which aspects to keep quiet.” _

__ Horrendously vague, Greta knew he could only say so much on a public line, but the idea that they would have to, even briefly, explain their situation to another without the guarantee of them keeping quiet was terrifying. Patient confidentiality only went so far and the poor soul may be indebted to Mr. Murray, but giving them such knowledge would give them the power to flip the tables in a heartbeat. 

“May we speak of this in person?” She needed to know. How much would this therapist be willing to turn a blind eye to? Greta refused to have such a conversation over the phone, “I think a little more privacy is needed for these matters.”

“ _ Of course, of course. I planned on being present for the first meeting with them anyways, as to make sure they could truly handle what Brahms has to tell.” _

__ He spoke of the meeting like Greta had already agreed to it, dates and all. “And if they aren’t a fit? What’s your plan B?”

Maybe, she mused, sitting in the dark, speaking of therapy for a murderer, one shouldn’t look a gift horse like Mr. Murray in the mouth, but she needed to break this Heelshire phobia of appropriate planning. Even if it cost her the most useful ally she had. 

_ “There is no ‘plan B’, Ms. Evans. You’ll soon find Brahms doesn’t leave room for options, both legally and not.” _

__ A bout of silence passed over the line, the raw humming of age old electric wires connected to the phone filling the space.

“ _ Ms. Evans?” _

“I will drop by your office in two days time and we may speak then. Thank you for your call.”

Greta knew she’d set the phone down too hard when the brass hoops that held the phone shuttered as she hung up. 

Powerless, that was how she felt. How Mr. Murray made her feel.

He’d done so much for the Heelshires, for her. Mr. Murray had cleared Brahms's name, but in return he’d been dehumanized. He’d found a solution for Greta’s problems, but had ensured he was the only solution. 

It was this infinite uncertainty Greta felt for him that kept her holding on. It was also this uncertainty that led to her to lay back down and rest her head once more, shelving the thoughts for the morning. She would think about it in the morning, she would decide later. 

“Who called?”

Greta shot up from the bed, her heart slamming inside her chest as she searched the darkness.

“Brahms!”

The darkness obscured most of him, but Greta knew it was him standing in the doorway that connected their rooms. 

“Jesus, you scared me.” 

She’d forgotten he’d slept there still. After the whole ‘double homicide’ debacle, she hadn’t seen him touch the room, dust lining the dresser tops and bed stands.

“Sorry.” In the darkness, his hands shifted, fingers twiddling at center mass,“Is everything alright?” 

It was the host who stood there, voice singed and mask nowhere in sight. It seemed that she could not wait until morning, the problem had to be faced now. 

“Yes,” Slowly, her heart rate climbed back down, “well, not really.”

Brahms said nothing. Instead, his face contorted into that of confusion, curls shifting as he tilted his head in a silent beckon to continue. 

“It’s complicated.” Greta sat upright and folded her legs underneath her before patting the bedspread. “Go turn on a light and come here, then I can explain.” 

Moving through the dark with ease was not something she’d mastered yet, but Brahms had had twenty plus years of experience with the home, so navigating the room was nothing to him. Sitting there, all Greta could do was watch his form move through the night, the soft rustle of his night clothes the only proof it was truly him and not a phantom. 

Brahms’s fingers found the lamp’s switch first and clicked it once, bathing both him and the room in a pale, yellow light. 

It was dull, the aged shine from the lamp, but at least now Greta could see the man in something other than black, blurry shapes that the dark lent itself to. Once more she patted the bed and watched as Brahms turned and made his way over, the large nightshirt he wore hanging off his frame like it would a child.

“Your pajamas are very nice, I’ve never seen that pair before.” She only spoke once he’d reached her side, now sat upon the covers with the lamplight upon his back.

“Father got them for me on my eighteenth birthday.” He picked at the printed ducks on the fabric of his pants, “I don’t much like wearing them since he’s gone.”

A few beats of silence passed, Greta watching as Brahms stared into his lap, hands stilling. 

“Mr. Murray called.”

The dull light could not conceal the surprise that read across Brahms’s face as he snapped his head towards her, “Has something happened?”

“More like something is about to happen.” Greta could not meet his eyes, “I’ve scheduled you a therapist.”

The anger was instantaneous. “I thought you said no hospitals? Greta, I don’t want to be locked up and looked at!”

“Brahms, it’s just therapy, you’re not being institutionalized.” 

Her voice fell on deaf ears as Brahms’s voice continued to rise, “No! Mother said the same thing when she brought in the last one, and look at where that got me!”

Greta hadn’t a clue what he was speaking about. Had the Heelshires tried therapy? Mr. Murray sure hadn’t mentioned it, but he also hadn’t mentioned a lot of things. And if the Heelshires had tried therapy, then where had the last therapist -

“You know what happened.” His voice had lowered as he spoke, cutting her thoughts short, “I can see it on your face, you want to know what happened last time, but you know, even if Mummy didn’t tell you.”

“You don’t have to yell.” Greta’s voice wavered and Brahms returned his gaze to his lap.

Slowly, his grip on his duckie pajamas loosened and silence filled the space between them once more.

“I’m sorry for raising my voice, Greta.”

In turn, she said nothing, choosing to simply stare with him at the print upon his pants. 

“I just..” Brahms’s hands found the covers and held them instead, “You promised to be there for me. No hospitals and no institutions.”

“I never said I wouldn’t be there for you, Brahms.”

Like before, Brahms turned his head to Greta, and once again, she refused to meet his gaze.

“I want to be the solution to your problems, I truly do.” When Brahms kept his silence, she continued, “But I can’t, and that hurts me too. I thought if I loved you hard enough, then this would just.. go away.”

She’d done it with Cole. In return, he’d killed her child and sent her running to a different continent.

“I’m not going to let them take you, but I can’t -” Thickly she swallowed, throat beginning to close as tired tears welled within her ducts, “I can’t do this alone, Brahms.”

Her mind flashed back to the childcare book still stashed in the kitchen downstairs. Maybe this was her way of being his rock, his outlet. She could not handle his blows, but she could give him someone who could, metaphorically speaking.

Brahms’s hand reached up from the covers and cupped Greta’s cheek, his rough palm scratching softly as she allowed herself to sink into his touch.

“I don’t mean to cry, I just -” A shaky breath interrupted her.

“It’s alright, Greta.” He slid his hand slowly back, palm resting against her jaw and fingers pressed into the mess of her hair as he cradled her head. It was a move he’d seen his Father do to comfort his Mummy long ago, back when she still cried about him. The motion was so simple yet so intimate and as Brahms sat there, he understood why his Mummy would crave such a touch, “I’m here for you.”

Not soon after the tears began to fall, quietly at first, but quickly growing in quantity until Greta was openly sobbing into the man’s hand as if it was meant to catch her tears. Unabashed in her catharsis, she reached out and Brahms’s hand was there to meet hers. 

It was like that they sat until the tears stopped, the man silent as he rode the storm and allowed Greta to release herself upon and into his embrace.

Twenty two minutes, Brahms noted. Twenty two minutes since he’d last checked his own clock and entered the room, and as Greta calmed in his hold, sniffling and grasping his hand, Brahms could not have thought of anyone else he’d liked to have spent those twenty two minutes with.

“I-I’m,” The gruff sound of Greta snuffing back the snot that dribbled onto her lip broke the silence, tears now drying upon her cheeks and the sleeve of Brahms’s night shirt, “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

But before Brahms could think of something to say back, something to reassure Greta,  _ his  _ Greta, she continued.

“Cole always told me I was a crybaby, and I think that’s one of the few things he got right about me.”

The instinct to leap on the comment and tear it to shreds was quelled by Greta’s weak smile, her cheeks red and eyes puffy. 

“A-And-” She coughed a wet cough, the croak telling of the emotional crash she’d just had, “ and that’s why I’m going to therapy with you.”

“What?” Brahms’s voice betrayed nothing, genuine surprise rolling off his tongue, “Greta, you’re so wonderful, you needn’t do that for me.”

“No, Brahms.” For the first time since he’d yelled, Greta looked back up and met Brahms’s gaze, “I shouldn’t break down the second I'm a little stressed. I shouldn’t start crying the second you raise your voice at me. I shouldn’t-”

Whatever she’d had planned to say next was cut short by Brahms’s embrace. Like the wind he had wrapped his arms around her, pulling Greta firm against his chest until he was sure she could hear his heart beating just behind his ribs. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” When Greta made no move to leave his embrace, he continued, “I just.. Mummy and Father tried everything and I watched it run them ragged. I don’t want you to do the same.”

For a minute, all Greta could do was sit there, a few stray tears leaking out onto his shirt as she relished in the comfort. Maybe she’d let his younger alter confuse her perception, but now, wrapped in his arms, she realized just how  _ warm  _ and  _ broad  _ the other was. How her own body slotted into his as if they were made to fit together. How right it felt to have Brahms holding her.

“I’m nothing like your mother, Brahms. Her mistakes will not be mine.” She did not bother to pull from his hold as she spoke, “I need this therapy just as much as you do. Neither of us can do this alone, or, at least, I don’t want to do it alone.”

“I don’t want to do it alone, either, Greta.” 

A few beats of silence passed as Greta basked in the embrace. It was when her eyes began to droop that she finally slid back from his hold, peering up into the other.

“Can we pick this up in the morning?”

Like before, the chocolate curls upon Brahms’s head shifted as he tilted his head in a silent question.

“It’s terribly late and all that crying took it out of me.” Idle, her hands rubbed circles into his back, “All I wish to do right now is lay down and fall asleep in your arms. Is that alright?”

“I think that sounds splendid, Greta.”

Idle chat filled the next few minutes that it took the two to get ready once more for bed. Greta had been reluctant to let the other get up and turn off the light and Brahms had been reluctant to let her snuggle in before he could find his way back to the bed.

Finally, as the bedside clock upon Greta’s nightstand hit eleven thirty five, the duo had managed to get comfortable under the covers, fronts pressed together and legs intertwined. 

“Goodnight, Brahms.” Greta had her face tucked into his covered clavicle.

Brahms had his head tucked over hers, body doing its best to cover every inch of the woman, “Goodnight, Greta.” 

It was not until her breathing evened out and she relaxed within his arms did Brahms speak once more. It was barely a whisper, the ghost of his words rustling a few strands of hair as the breath left his mouth.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i'd like to thank colielox for being my dutiful beta reader!


	5. Piaget and PTSD

The sheets next to her were cold when Greta awoke the next day.

Despite how late it’d been, she remembered falling asleep next to Brahms. She remembered how solid he’d felt as they laid, an arm draped across her like an anchor. The covers had kept the cold out, but it was Brahms that had kept her warm.

Now, with the bedside clock ticking to ten, all that remained in his place were rumpled sheets and the light that seeped in through her curtains. Most mornings the comfort of her bed called to her like a siren’s song, the plush covers nearly too snug to leave, but with the space beside her cold, Greta couldn’t find a reason to stay.

Swinging her legs over the side of her bed, she rose, bare feet warm against the hardwood below. Tentatively, as she stood in the silence of her room, Greta picked at her nightshirt and gave a small  _ sniff.  _

The plan had been to throw on some socks, brush her hair, and then go find Brahms. Now, it was to get to the shower as fast as she could. The washroom wasn’t too far, and Greta found herself thankful as she rifled through the linen closet for a towel. 

***

Wet brass squealed as Greta turned the knobs in the shower, the warm water stopped in its tracks. Despite the steam that now fogged the mirror and slicked the floor, the water on her skin wasted no time cooling to an icy chill as she stepped from the tub.

There was not a clock nor a window in the bathroom, but Greta knew the water heater on her wing of the manor lasted  _ maybe  _ ten minutes, if it hadn’t been used yet. 

While it was good knowledge for gauging the time, it’s main purpose served as a call for Brahms. Ten minutes was plenty of time for the man to make his way to the washroom where she was, and while Greta was still vehemently against any kind of peeping, it did mean she could find Brahms that much faster.

She wrapped herself in a towel and dried her feet upon the bath mat before brushing what she could of the water out of her hair. Mrs. Heelshire had owned a hairdryer, she’d found it on the second day after realizing she’d forgotten her own, but the thing seemed ancient and Greta wasn’t about to test her luck with electrical failure. 

In one smooth motion, she bent over and flipped her hair, taking the towel from her body and wrapping it snugly around her head. In its place, she redressed, grey joggers and some faded concert shirt she’d neglected to toss. Fleetwood Mac, to be specific, and as she stood once more, Greta thought to show them to Brahms. If he’d liked the last bit of ‘modern’ music she’d shown him, no doubt he’d be up for some more. 

Dried and dressed, Greta set out into the hall. Part of her expected Brahms to be right outside the door, the other part hoped he’d hung around in the walls, and whatever rational part of her she still possessed prayed he was, at least for the moment, awol.

“Brahms?” 

Her voice echoed softly through the empty hall. She stepped to the hard paneling of the wall and knocked, but, like her voice, all she received was a hollow echo of her own noise. 

“Are you here?”

It was shameful, really, how searching for Brahms had become an integral part of her morning routine. 

“Brah-”

A clatter rang out from the stairwell to her right and Greta shut her mouth. She waited, hoping it was the man of the hour coming up at her call, but a beat of quiet passed without another peep. 

The steam of the bathroom licked at her heels as she started off towards the stairs landing. She knew she should head back to her room before her search, tidy her hair before it became a frizzy mess drying in the towel, but her curiosity kept her forward, feet helpless to its pull. Without hesitation, she descended, the carpet of the stairs silencing her steps. 

She crept, thankful for the silence. Despite how long she’d been there, after everything she’d done and been through, still, on some level, Greta felt like an intruder. As if any noise, any space she occupied was on borrowed time, time she was trespassing upon. Forever waiting for the other shoe to drop, forever a pest.

She stored the thought, the feeling, for later. She could bring it up in therapy.

It wasn’t until she had stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, mid-motion unto the foyer did Greta hear another noise. Closer than before and coming from the right.

Pans, she could tell, it was pans making the noise. The sporadic clatter of iron hitting iron, the metallic  _ clang _ that followed, these sounds left no doubt in Greta’s mind that someone (or  _ something _ ) was messing with the kitchen pans. 

The carpet below muffled her steps as she made her way down the hall towards the noise, feet fretful and swift. If it was Brahms in the kitchen and not an intruder, then she should’ve had nothing to worry about, for he, contrary to his parent’s beliefs, could be quite capable. Yet still, knowing this, she worried, for not once in weeks she’d been there had she seen him pick up even a spatula. It was normally her who made meals, who brewed the coffee and cooked the eggs. Brahms was notorious for driving a stake into her plans, but him switching it up and fixing himself breakfast for a change didn’t sit right with Greta.

Cautious, she arrived and stood herself out of sight at the lip of the kitchen walkway. The burner was on, she could hear the soft hiss of the gas stovetop, and the idea of an intruder was further dismissed. Breaking in just to make breakfast seemed silly.

“Brahms?”

Greta rounded the corner. 

“Look who’s finally up!”

Brahms was there, but it was not he who stood at the stove nor he who greeted her.

“Malcolm?”

His jacket was off and hung next to the door on his right. In one hand he held a rubber spatula while the other gripped the handle of the pan, shifting it around on the burner, “Figured if I was going to pop in, I might as well make Brahms’s breakfast.”

Malcolm nodded to the table where Brahms sat. Similarly to when she’d sat him down for lunch the day prior, Brahms had an activity book open in front of him and was working hard on a page, but unlike then, his crayons and colored pencils were now scattered about the table as if Malcolm had let him dump them all out at once. 

“Good morning Greta!” 

She could see the grin that stretched across his face as he turned to her, his porcelain mask sat next to his hand upon the table. 

“Good morning Brahms, did you sleep well?”

Brahms nodded and turned back to the page in front of him, “I heard Mr. Malcolm’s motor and figured I’d let him in.”

“It isn’t grocery day,” Greta walked from the entryway to Brahms who was once again engrossed in the coloring, rubbing his shoulder before looking to the man in question, “so what brings you here so early?”

“What, I can’t drop in on my friends without a reason?” His smile wasn’t as wide as the one Brahms had given her, but it was genuine all the same, “Just figured you and the lad could use some company is all.”

Company. Greta nearly gave herself mental whiplash with how fast her mind conjured up the memory of the last home call from a friend.

“Are you, uh-” Slipping her hand from Brahms’s shoulder, Greta cleared her throat and tried again, “A-Are you about done with breakfast?”

“Just finishing up the toast,” If Malcolm noticed her falter, he didn’t mention it, “Can you believe that with all the money the Mister and Missus had, they never thought to buy a toaster?”

“Considering these are the same people who didn’t bother buying a microwave, yeah, I can.”

Malcolm turned back to the pan and nudged the two slices around with the spatula, “I only made enough for Brahms, you want me to whip you up something as well?”

“No, I’ll just make some coffee,” Breakfast was important and Greta could feel the beginnings of hunger tingling in her gut, but the memory of Cole’s friends soured whatever appetite she could work up, “Listen,” She lowered her voice to a near whisper, “once you get Brahms his breakfast, come meet me in the foyer.”

The smile on Malcolm’s face faded into neutral concern but before he could ask, Greta was walking off, patting Brahms hair on her way out.

***

Sat upon the entryway couch, Greta ran her hand through her still damp hair. The towel she’d been using sat folded in her lap, it’s moist coolness chilling her legs. 

Cole, his friends, and possibly others were buried on Heelshire ground. Somewhere in the estate, whether it was Brahms who’d buried them or someone else, there were bodies. 

Malcolm knew this, he had to know this. He’d been their grocery boy for what, five years? He’d been privy to countless Heelshire shenanigans, even if he hadn't realized it at the time. He’d been there when Cole died, when Brahms beat him bloody. Greta reasoned there was no way for Malcolm to not understand the potential, the  _ danger  _ Brahms had.

So why was it that now, sitting within the very house that many of the murders had occurred in, Greta was scared to tell him about Cole’s friends?

It wasn’t as if it’d somehow tarnish the man’s reputation, Malcolm was fully aware of the horrors their masked friend had caused. But he’d been doing so well, and if she was to go off the fact that he’d felt comfortable enough to drop by and make the lad breakfast, Greta knew Malcolm must’ve believed that on some level, Brahms had changed. That he was safe.

“Greta?”

She snapped her head to the right, jerked from her thoughts.

“Malcolm!” Surprise lingered in her voice as she relaxed back against the couch, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Quite alright,” His smile from earlier was back in place, but this time, Greta could see the worry bleeding out the corners, “You said you had something to tell me?”

She gave him a curt nod and patted the cushion next to her, “Is Brahms busy?”

“Yeah, breakfast should tide him over for a bit, if not more,” It was as if the worry of being interrupted was scrawled across her forehead for Malcolm to read, “Is something wrong?”

He sat and Greta pulled her hand back, resting it on her lap to toy with the towel. An anxious move, truly, but she couldn’t find it in her to stop, “Yeah.”

A beat of silence passed, the man’s expectant stare rubbing a hole in the side of her still wet head. 

“It happened again.”

She had turned her head to face the towel her fingers now fiddled with, but Malcolm’s confused face was not lost in her periphery. Greta could almost see the gears turning as he opened his mouth and then closed it, eyes roaming the way they do when one is thinking. 

“You mean...?”

She didn’t want to say it. She had watched Brahms bash the men’s skulls in and still did not want to admit it. 

“It was two of them,” Verbal damnation, that was what it felt like, “They came looking for Cole.”

“Where are they now?” The joy in his voice when he’d greeted her that morning was gone, his words quiet and serious.

“Somewhere on the property. Brahms got to them before I could.”

All that followed was silence, Greta left to pick at the towel in her lap while Malcolm processed the bombshell she’d just dropped.

Faintly, she could hear Brahms in the kitchen, colored pencils clattering against the table as he sifted for the correct color. He’d been so happy when she walked in, both him and Malcolm had, and part of her wished she’d just kept her mouth shut. 

But Malcolm needed to know. Malcolm deserved to know, had a right to know. If he was going to be a player in this, then he couldn’t be kept in the dark. No matter how hard it was.

“You think he feels bad?” Greta turned her head to face him, Malcolm’s tone contemplative, “I mean, the lad doesn’t seem too gutted about it.”

She shook her head, damp hair sticking to the sides of her neck, “No, but I do think he felt bad for spooking me.”

“He tell you that?”

“Well,” Greta let out a sigh of exasperation, turning her head back to the towel, “He didn’t  _ say  _ he felt bad for scaring me, but-” The memory of warm she’d felt last night popped into her mind, all wrapped up and broken in Brahms’s arms.

“But you know, yeah?” Malcolm shot a quick glance to the connecting hall from the kitchen, “Listen, you’ve got a little more up close experience with the lad, so I’ll take your word on this one.” 

His hand wavered for a moment in his lap before reaching up to rest on her shoulder and Greta wished for nothing more than the ability to explain. The night before had been... Insightful, and it solidified that Brahms in fact did  _ not _ want to hurt her, but her mouth seemed content to disobey her and thus they sat in silence. 

“You want me to talk to him?”

“How so?” Greta did not look up from her lap.

“You know, tell him that offing everyone who shows on your doorstep  _ isn’t _ a good idea?”

“Malcolm, I’m sure he knows-” 

Greta stopped herself.  _ Did _ Brahms know?

He’d been punished the first time he killed someone. It was what started this whole mess, but understanding one would be punished for something wrong was vastly different than feeling bad for doing something wrong. 

Brahms had felt guilty for scaring her. She had no doubt in her mind about this fact, but the way he’d spoken last night, dancing around his past grievances as they sat on her bed, it told Greta everything she needed to know.

“Have you ever read anything on child theory, Malcolm?”

Malcolm shook his head once, “Can’t say I have, seeing as I’m quite the bachelor.”

Greta reached up and placed a hand over his on her shoulder before looking at him, “I took some classes when I was expecting. I was terrified of fucking up, so I read just about everything I could get my hands on.”

“Any of those books tell you how to deal with something like this?” He flashed her a cheeky smile, and Greta returned it, albeit stunted.

“No, unfortunately, but I remember the emotional stages kids go through before they’re mature. There’s four of them, and I think Brahms got stuck somewhere in egocentrism.”

“Nice vocabulary, still don’t think I’m catching on though.”

As the gears turned and her mind sifted through what she remembered, Greta could feel her mood lifting, “I don’t remember where I read it, but it’s a stage in young kids where they can’t see from another point of view.” Brahms had been eight when he killed Emily, right at the cusp of the next stage, and relief began to flood Greta’s mind as the pieces began to click together, “I think Brahms developed it some, he’s got the physical aspect down pat, but I don’t think he got to fully nail the emotional empathy part.”

Malcolm paused, mulling her words over, “You’re saying he doesn’t feel bad because he literally can’t  _ understand  _ feeling bad?”

“Kind of. It would explain why he’s so cruel to the animals that sneak in the walls.”

Greta knew Brahms had had over a decade to develop, emotionally and physically, but all things considered, stunted empathy made sense. 

She opened her mouth to continue, but Malcolm cut her off, “Looks like we’ve got an audience.”

Greta snapped her gaze to the doorway where Brahms now stood, mask in place and coloring page in hand.

“Brahms!” The smile that broke out across her face felt neither forced nor misplaced, “Did you finish your breakfast?”

Chocolate curls bounced as Brahms nodded, eyes crinkling as he smiled behind his mask, “It was very good. Thank you Mr. Malcolm.”

Malcolm nodded once in return, “Glad to hear it.”

Sliding the towel from her lap, Greta stood, “What have you got there in your hands, Brahms?”

“I’ve made you something, Greta.” 

“May I see?”

Brahms nodded and stepped from where he was stationed at the entryway, socked feet quick as he walked to Greta, before holding out the paper for her to take.

The sheet was full of color and as she took it from Brahms, Greta could see his name written neatly at the top of the page, “You did a wonderful job, Brahms.”

It was a simple scene, the stylized animals riddled about the page neatly colored in (although said colors did not mesh well, considering he’d colored one of the rabbits a deep purple) and Greta found herself impressed at the effort he’d put in.

“Why don’t you go hang this on the fridge while Malcolm and I finish up?”

At that, Brahms paused, “Greta, coloring pages aren’t to be hung anywhere. Mummy always had them put in the drawer.”

‘ _ Who doesn’t hang their kid’s artwork?’  _ Greta thought, “I think we can make an exception this time around.” 

Brahms shifted on his feet, nervous as Greta handed the page back to him.

“There should be magnets atop the fridge, go pick out the prettiest one to hang this up with.”

He didn’t want to, Greta could see that. The idea of disobeying Mrs. Heelshire’s rules did not sit well with little Brahms, but after a moment, it seemed Greta’s allowance outweighed his worry.

“Are you quite sure it’s alright?”

Greta reached and tucked a curl behind Brahms’s ear, “I promise.”

Obviously he wasn’t too torn up about the rules, for the second Greta pulled her hand back, he was bounding off back towards the kitchen.

“You think he heard?”

Malcolm had stood as well, but Greta hadn’t heard him approach, “If he did, I think it’ll be fine.” She turned, running a hand through her hair, “You want to continue this talk later?”

“Later sounds good.” Already they could hear Brahms coming back, “Maybe tonight?”

Greta nodded, watching through the doorway as Brahms hurried back down the hall, “Tonight sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a late chapter, life has been quite busy lately. My posting schedule will most likely change to a tri-weekly update from this point forward.


	6. An Update (9/21/20)

Hello all! You may be wondering where the latest chapter is (seeing as it’s almost a week late now) and I’d love to tell you that I’ve got it right here for you all, but unfortunately that is not the case. 

This will be my official mini-hiatus note. I’m using this note as a chapter placeholder for the time being (I will delete it when I have the next chapter ready) because while I love this story and love writing it, my real life responsibilities have gotten the best of me. Recently, my classes have started back up and I’ve begun switching jobs, and while I thought giving myself an extra week on updates would quell some stress, it only served to highlight how badly I needed to take a break from this tale. 

With this hiatus, there will be some changes, the first being that I will have to change to an unstructured posting schedule. Biweekly updates are nice for a reader (I say this as an avid fanfic reader myself), but the constant stress of a deadline curbs my inspiration to write. It makes these chapters feel like a chore, leading me to put out work that I’m not completely proud of. 

I want to give you all my very best effort since you’ve taken time out of your day to bother with my story. You, as readers, deserve nothing less than a work I’ve put my whole heart into, and to give you all something I’ve slapped together simply for a deadline feels like a cheat.

I hope you all understand and stay tuned for upcoming chapters. 

Much love, Mangoe <3


End file.
